


Distraction

by BringtheKaos



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5+1, A whole lotta love, And Joe being completely GONE for Nicky, Blow Jobs, Brazen disregard of gun safety, But what you can expect is, Come Swallowing, Coming In Pants, Cuz I got too excited about them, Edging, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Love and sex over the years, M/M, Nicky just being completely GONE for Joe, No penetrative sex, Not all of these are for every chapter, Semi-Public Sex, So the top is whoever you want it to be, Some Fluff, but really 4+1, wet and messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27296575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BringtheKaos/pseuds/BringtheKaos
Summary: Four times Joe distracted Nicky, and one time Nicky returned the favor.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 8
Kudos: 157





	1. Beneath the Cypress Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Now before anyone jumps down my throat, I'm not saying they're like this all the time. I AM saying I chose these 5 times to tell you about.   
> Also, if you see something historically inaccurate, just keep walking. I'm not a historian. I'm just here to chew bubblegum and write smut and I'm all outta bubblegum.

Constantinople, 1116

Their sexual relationship was still somewhat new—new enough to still burn with urgency, with passion, with desperation. But not so new that there was any doubt left, any shame or guilt.

And there had been, _oh_ there had been, on the part of both of them. Yusuf hid it better than Nicolò, but after years and years of travelling together, of learning each other, of familiarizing themselves with the other’s every tick… Nicolò learned to note the signs. But Yusuf had done the same, and over time that doubt had, very slowly, been dissolved. And the day it was eradicated completely had been a fiery one indeed… hours upon hours spent rolling in soft blankets, exploring each other’s bodies with ravenous need.

They’d made a home for themselves here, far on the outskirts of the city to avoid suspicion, but still close enough that a trek to town for supplies and trading only took half a day. The dwelling was nothing spectacular—a single, wide open space containing their (now shared) bedroll, a small but cozy sitting area, mainly used for Joe’s art, and a modest kitchen consisting of a rather impressive stone fireplace (through which Yusuf had installed a spit for meat and a kettle), and a table fitted with a stone slab for preparation. Yusuf had quickly learned what an affinity Nicolò had for cooking, instilled by his mother long ago, and had worked hard to make it perfect. In grateful exchange, Nicolò had spent a great deal of their coin on easels, charcoal, paints and paintbrushes, and even paper, which was the hardest to come by. But it was well worth it, the opportunity to watch Yusuf’s stunning eyes enraptured with concentration on his work being simply priceless.

They had come to reside here quite by accident, but a happy one. The home was part of a larger farm, one which the two of them were now tasked with protecting from thieves, pillagers, and predators. They had been travelling past, completely intending to leave the crowded, bustling city of Constantinople far behind them, and had happened across the old farmer and his three sons struggling to ward off a group of bandits from the livestock. It hadn’t even been a question of if they would help—their now well-practiced ease of communication without words sending them immediately into battle.

They had dispatched the bandits easily, their combined trained might with their swords incomparable to the youthful, amateur hands of the farmer’s boys. The farmer had offered a frankly ridiculous amount of meat and vegetables in reward, but Yusuf had turned it all down, asking simply for lodgings for the night, and a single meal.

The farmer did him one better, offering their outbuilding as semi-permanent residence (it was to go to the eldest son when he came of age to take a wife, but that wouldn’t be for many years), in exchange for continued protection against raiders. And after a single impressed glance between them, Yusuf and Nicolò had agreed wholeheartedly.

They had never settled down before, and it was a strange but welcome opportunity. For seventeen years, they had just kept moving, kept going, never stopping more than a few weeks at most in any one area. Fear kept them moving, and love kept them together.

At least it had become love, at some point. If asked, Nicolò couldn’t pinpoint when exactly he’d realized, and he doubted Yusuf could either. It had been such a slow transformation from tense stalemate to friendship to _more_ , that neither of them noticed how desperately they cared for one another until they were already madly head over heels.

Living together provided a unique opportunity that constant travel had not—they were met with the ability to see one another _at peace_ ; safe, secure, unguarded, and it revealed a whole new side of each other to love. Nicolò learned that Yusuf held his tongue in his teeth when concentrating on his painting, and Yusuf learned that Nicolò hummed when he was in the kitchen, content in old habits. They learned so many new, exciting things about each other that a life on the run just hadn’t provided, and it was only cause for their adoration to blossom even more.

They fell into a routine of sorts. Early morning, Yusuf would occasionally pray (he was struggling with his faith a bit, just as Nicolò still was), and then they would go to the nearby river to wash in the cold water and wake themselves with the shock of it. Then they would dress, collect their weapons, and patrol the entire perimeter of the farmer’s land. After, they would return to their home to eat breakfast, and tend to their own responsibilities. Yusuf had started a modest garden of his own, just enough to provide for the two of them really, consisting of peppers, squash, eggplants, and of course, tomatoes. So many of Nicolò’s favorite foods utilized them that Yusuf could hardly keep up, but he never complained.

They also kept a few chickens, gifted to them by the farmer’s wife, a goat, and their two horses. The farmer’s dog had also taken such a liking to Nicolò that most days, she could be found sleeping within inches of his feet.

As she was now, a hearty sigh creating a poof of dust at her snout as Nicolò preened feathers for crossbow arrows. The call for his crossbow skills had been low of late, with them having settled down, but it was no reason to be caught without the ability to use it.

Yusuf had traded their entire store of goat cheese for some bamboo from the east, and Nicolò had crafted 20 long, sturdy arrow shafts from it. The arrow tips would have been much easier to barter for, but it would have been expensive, and with plenty of time and river rocks on their hands, Nicolò had handcrafted those as well.

The feathers were the easiest part, and Nicolò had saved it until last, rewarding himself for the hard work by sitting out in the beaming sun, cool breeze on his neck, and napping dog at his feet. Yusuf had been tilling their small garden all morning, the easy _whack_ of his billhook creating a rather hypnotic rhythm that served to put Nicolò in a semi-delirious state of happiness.

That was until he looked up to find that Yusuf had removed his tunic for the heat, and his bronze skin was glistening deliciously with sweat. Nicolò gulped, completely gone within an instant.

“Is that not the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” he asked of the dog, and her head rose at the sound of his voice. Yusuf looked over at him and smiled, wiping his brow before turning back to his task, and Nicolò hadn’t thought he could be any more enamored, but he was.

The feathers forgotten, Nicolò unashamedly stared at the way Yusuf’s muscles moved beneath the flesh of his arms, the way they rippled with the impact of the billhook. He swallowed harshly, damning his inconvenient thirst for this man as he grew hard in his trousers. Whether Yusuf was aware of Nicolò’s gaze or not remained to be seen, but either way, he turned slightly in the garden, making his way back down the rows, and Nicolò’s breath caught in his throat at the bared visage of Yusuf’s back, muscles shifting stirringly. With a sudden swift anger, Nicolò desperately lamented that the fingernail marks he’d left there the night before last had healed so quickly.

“I’m going down to the river to cool off,” Yusuf’s voice barricaded into Nicolò’s daydreaming, and Nicolò jumped a bit. “Would you like to join me, Nico?”

So he must have seen that hungry look in Nicolò’s eyes. Nicolò grinned, and it would have been bashful, if he felt any kind of guilt at being found out. As it was, he _wanted_ Yusuf to know that he struggled every second they weren’t touching, that his body ached to be joined with Yusuf’s at all times, that even the _sight_ of him was unbearably arousing.

“Of course,” he replied, placing a heavy stone atop his pile of feathers so they wouldn’t blow away and tossing a halfhearted “stay” to the dog.

Nicolò followed closely, mimicked Yusuf’s movements as he waded into the slow-moving river and scooped up handfuls of water to splash onto his face, his shoulders, his chest. But his resolve finally shattered as he watched the water cascade down Yusuf’s chest, shining against that gorgeous dark skin.

Nicolò whined as he struggled to keep his reaction contained, wading forward, wrapping his arms around Yusuf’s waist, and pressing an urgent kiss to his lips. Yusuf responded passionately, but briefly, as he pulled away to rest their foreheads together.

“They could see, Nico,” he whispered, reaching up and swiping a bit of wet hair back that was plastered to Nicolò’s cheek.

“I don’t give a damn,” Nicolò growled, gripping Yusuf’s lower back and pulling him hard against him so that Yusuf could feel exactly how little he cared as it brushed against his thigh.

In fact, Nicolò had prepared an entire speech, mostly for God. It had been a source of comfort to him when he had begun to doubt, forming exactly what he would say to his maker if judgement ever came.

 _‘How dare you. How dare you give me this man, this wonder of_ your _creation, and then have the gall to tell me it’s wrong to love him. You did this—_ you _made him kind and intelligent, tender and sweet. You made him beautiful, completely irresistible to my eyes, and you dare ask me not to touch? If staying away from him is what it costs to enter here, then I don’t want it. Send me back to Earth to continue this cursed life, send me to Hell for all I care. Where he goes, I will go, and where he stays, I will stay.’_

But Yusuf had a point. They had something good here, and it would be foolish to jeopardize it. So, with a conspiratorial huff, Nicolò leaned away, up the bank of the river to the large old Cypress tree that resided there, and he grinned victoriously.

“Come with me,” he demanded, firmly taking Yusuf’s wet hand and dragging him along until they were effectively hidden from the world. Once there, Nicolò maneuvered Yusuf until his back was against the tree, and he took both Yusuf’s hands and pushed them back until they splayed out against the trunk.

“Don’t move,” Nicolò asked, breathless as he gracelessly dropped to his knees and insinuated with a hand that Yusuf spread his legs a bit.

“Oh shit…” Yusuf cursed, biting his lower lip, and obeyed immediately.

Nicolò’s hands began to shake in his frenzy, and it took several tries to get Yusuf’s trousers untied and pushed to his thighs. Once he had though, he made an effort to contain his desperation, and he looked up teasingly to meet his love’s eyes as he took Yusuf’s half-hard length in a loose grip and began to lightly stroke.

Yusuf had been circumcised as an infant, and it was something Nicolò adored about him. He wasn’t sure what about it he was obsessed with; perhaps it was just something he hadn’t any experience with, as it was highly frowned upon in Clement III’s church. Regardless of any religious reasoning, Nicolò found, probably selfishly, that he enjoyed having absolutely no barrier between him and his Yusuf’s pleasure.

He enjoyed even more the look of complete bliss that came over Yusuf as Nicolo leaned in, continuing to lazily stroke him as he pursed his lips around the head.

“Fuck, Nico, _yes_ ,” Yusuf moaned, eyes sliding shut and head tipping back to collide with the tree.

That was when Nicolò began in earnest—closing his fist tighter around Yusuf’s now very hard cock, and following it with his mouth. Yusuf moaned, loud and filthy, hips bucking slightly into Nicolò’s mouth, and Nicolò found that his own need was making itself known; a throbbing heat in his gut that ratcheted exponentially higher with every beautiful sound Yusuf made.

Nicolò would have to remove his hand from Yusuf’s cock to get his own breeches untied, and that was simply out of the question, so he resorted to pressing against himself with his free hand and rubbing up and down his cock where it was trapped. It wasn’t even close to enough friction, enough pressure, but the tease of it was tantalizing.

He groaned in muted satisfaction around Yusuf’s cock, taking him almost all the way in and having to work to suppress his gag, and Yusuf practically cried out, a hand flying from the tree trunk to cover his mouth and quiet himself. Typically, Nicolò would fault him for that, as he absolutely _adored_ how vocal Yusuf was in the bedroom… but they weren’t _in_ their bedroom. So Nicolò allowed him this, but decided to give him a damn good reason.

He allowed a bit of spit to dribble out of his mouth, making sure to gather it up in his moving fist and work it all over Yusuf, making the glide even easier. He pulled back and off then, using only his hand on Yusuf’s cock and moving it up toward Yusuf’s stomach so that he could lean in and mouth at his right teste.

Yusuf released an impressive string of Arabic curses, some even Nicolò didn’t know yet, and Nicolò smiled triumphantly, allowing the teste to fall from his lips and going for the other. All the while he kept pumping Yusuf’s cock with his fist, and it was a testament to his work that beads of precome were already dripping down Yusuf’s length.

Nicolò’s own need was becoming unbearable as he admired the disheveled, wild sight before him—Yusuf’s abdominal muscles spasming on every languid pull, his thighs shivering with the strain of remaining upright. And his hand, clasped over his mouth, barely muffling the groans slipping out from behind.

Nicolò pressed harder against himself, pleasure spiking up his spine as he did, and he whimpered against Yusuf’s tightly drawn-up balls as he rocked his hips against his hand. Urgency caused him to speed up, and he returned to his main task, taking Yusuf back into his mouth without preamble and sucking, _hard._ This time Yusuf’s hand did nothing to quiet his cry of ecstasy, and his other scrambled at the tree trunk for purchase as his knees fairly buckled. Nicolò grinned as best he could with a mouth full of Yusuf, and he doubled down, quickening his movements as he continued to suck him. He pressed his tongue up against the underside, teasing the head whenever he could, and Yusuf had begun to whimper and beg with each and every bob of Nicolò’s mouth.

Rather bizarrely, Nicolò recalled the first time they’d done this; they’d both been so nervous and yet so desperate, their hands shook and their bodies trembled. It had been brief, embarrassingly so, but they had tried again… and again… _and again._ Taking each other apart all night and into the morning, almost crazed with desire that had been pent up for far too long.

Nicolò didn’t want this one to be brief—he wanted to have Yusuf shuddering apart under his hands forever, all of eternity if possible. So, with a final powerful suck, he pulled back, raising his eyes to meet Yusuf’s so that he could note the mischief that was certainly taking up residence there. And Yusuf did, a blissed-out smile spreading his lips as he watched with fascination, Nicolò halting the rubbing of his own hardness to raise his other hand and take his middle finger into his mouth. He made a show of it, closing his eyes and coating his finger with spit, letting out a moan that he knew was a bit too lascivious for the act.

It had the desired effect, though—Yusuf took the side of his own palm into his mouth and bit down to quiet himself, his own moan stifled by it. Nicolò grinned again, leaning back in to snake his now spit-drenched finger behind Yusuf’s balls to his rim, which he slowly began to massage in little circular motions as he simultaneously took Yusuf’s cock back into his mouth.

He worked a rhythm back up torturously slowly, keeping Yusuf on edge as he sucked and stroked and prodded. It wasn’t until he had his finger fully inside his lover’s body, tip brushing ever-so-slightly against that lovely spot inside him, that Yusuf broke Nicolò’s request and removed his hand from the tree to brush through Nicolò’s hair.

 _“Fuck, Nico, what you do to me…”_ he practically sobbed, not controlling Nicolò’s movements with his hand, but simply resting, _holding_ him.

Pride suffusing his very veins, Nicolò took Yusuf all the way to his throat without preamble, twitching the finger inside him at that perfect angle as he did. Yusuf hissed, his entire body going stone-still and the hand in Nicolò’s hair closing in a delightfully painful grip.

 _“Shit, Nico… I’m… I’m going to…”_ Yusuf warned, his thighs beginning to quake.

Nicolò pulled back, keeping only the head of Yusuf’s cock in his tightly-pursed lips and curling his finger one final time. Yusuf groaned against his hand, spilling hard in Nicolò’s mouth, striping his tongue and throat in a series of spasms, his cock jerking against Nicolò’s lips with the force of it.

Nicolò gentled him through it, slowly but forcefully working his fist up and down Yusuf’s length, between his own lips and Yusuf’s balls, all the while continuing to curl his finger inside.

When at last Yusuf began to relax, tense hips falling back against the tree and a long, sated sigh leaving his lips, Nicolò released him and carefully extricated his finger. He swallowed quickly, turning his head to spit whatever was left onto the ground, and that was when his own need hit him like a stampeding stallion.

He whimpered at the feel of it—his cock throbbing inside his restrictive pants—and he gripped Yusuf’s thigh with one hand to steady himself, and shoved his other against the crotch of his trousers. He’d only managed a few barely relieving strokes when Yusuf’s hand wound beneath Nicolò’s armpit and easily hauled him up to stand.

“No, not like this,” Yusuf said, asked really, if the begging tone in his voice was anything to go by. Hands shaking, Yusuf went for the tie of Nicolò’s breeches, and just that minimal pressure threatened to send Nicolò over the edge.

 _“Please, quickly, my love, quickly,”_ Nicolò whined, finding purchase by grasping Yusuf’s biceps and leaning their foreheads together.

Yusuf frantically pulled at the ties, nearly ripping the fabric in the process as he wasted no time in actually shoving the garments down and simply plunged his hand inside.

Nicolò cried out with joy as Yusuf’s hot palm found him, and Yusuf swallowed the sound with a kiss, his lips puffy and soft and perfect. Yusuf closed his fist around him and pulled twice, and that was all it took.

Nicolò’s wail of ecstasy was easily muffled by Yusuf’s mouth, and Nicolò held on for dear life as his whole body jerked and writhed, pleasure surging through every inch of him, from the tips of his curling toes to his feverishly heated cheeks. He could feel his spend filling Yusuf’s hand and painting his wrist, and Yusuf smiled into their kiss, slowing his strokes as Nicolò slowly came down, eventually stilling and simply holding him.

They breathed hotly against one another, heads resting together as their breathing finally evened out to reveal the lovely sounds around them—the slow gargle of the river, the chirp of birds overhead, and the wind rustling the leaves of the Cypress tree.

Simultaneously, they both devolved into a soft giggle, their ever-surprising need for each other becoming a source of elation—they’d been wondering for a while how long it would take for the novelty, the newness of their combined passion to die down to a dull simmer, and it clearly was _not_ this day.

“I take it you were enjoying the view?” Yusuf asked playfully, pulling his hand from Nicolò’s pants and causing Nicolò’s hips to jerk when a fingertip caught on the sensitive head of his cock. Nicolò stepped back, rearranging himself to right his pants and breeches and watching with barely sated hunger as Yusuf wiped Nicolò’s spend on the tree, and then stuffed himself back into his own pants and pulled them up.

“You are a vision in the sun, Yusuf, I couldn’t help myself,” Nicolò retorted just as playfully as he re-tied his breeches.

“And you are a vision always, Nicolò, but especially on your knees,” Yusuf said, and Nicolò felt himself blushing furiously. Yusuf pushed away from the tree to approach, cupping Nicolò’s cheek with painfully clear devotion, and leaned in for a much longer, much more peaceful kiss. “I have to go into town, there is a merchant who promised me white Genoan figs. Do you think you can handle the separation?”

Nicolò smiled, giddy in the knowledge that those figs were a gift for him. “ _Never._ But I will manage, so long as you promise to come back to me.”

Yusuf’s responding smile shined like the clear water at their backs, and Nicolò knew he blushed even more. He was beginning to wonder if his affection for this man was ever going to dull, or if he was always going to feel this heart-stopping obsession every time Yusuf smiled.

“Of that, you can be sure,” Yusuf said, eyes glittering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did way more research on circumcision than was probably necessary for a smutty 5-shot, but in said extensive research, I found that Yusuf probably would be, and Nicolò wouldn’t be.


	2. Driven to Distraction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize there is a massive gap in time from ch.1 to ch.2, roll with it.  
> Nicky does a lot of mixing languages, in this and all other chapters. It's just a little headcanon I have, that he mixes when the English word doesn't quite serve his needs. As always, translations are in superscript.  
> I'm not providing translations for obvious things, because I feel like, at this point, y'all probably know the words for "please," "thank you," and "my love."

New Orleans, 1922

This one would go down in their collective ledgers as one their more seedy operations. Of course, they didn’t know this at the time. All they knew was that the world was in chaos, still reeling from the carnage of World War I (this, too, they only knew as _the world war_ ), looming economic devastation, political unrest in almost every country and city on the planet, and that no one had the right to tell people they couldn’t have a goddamn drink.

Nicky had been passionate about this, having been raised in a family and a culture that valued the inclusion of wine in nearly _everything_ , but the one who had really been agitated by it, the one who initially suggested they _do something_ was Andy.

She’d always been a proponent of alcohol as a coping method, perhaps more than she’d ever admit, but what really stuck in her craw was a government telling its entire country what they could and couldn’t enjoy. How they were allowed to enjoy themselves. That certain things were “bad”, and certain other, government acceptable things, were “good.”

They’d all seen it hundreds of times, maybe thousands, if your name was Andromache, and it was always a precursor to disaster. It was also usually a precursor to unrest, possibly even war, when the boot of the government became simply too much to bear on the throat of the common man.

So they were rum runners now. Or at least they were working to _support_ the rum runners. They’d been hired by a man going by the name Bubbles Bianchi, an Italian-American who represented the real boss, a man none of them had met, and whose name wasn’t freely given. It wasn’t until much, much later that they learned it was Lucky Luciano, and they’d accidentally installed themselves, at however low a level, in a budding crime syndicate. Of course, when they found out, they high-tailed it, but that wouldn’t be for a few years.

For now though, Nicky and Joe were on a stake-out together, waiting for the shipment to arrive in the harbor, under cover of darkness. They had split up into pairs, Andy and Booker having escorted the cargo from Great Britain to Nassau, then on to New Orleans. Booker’s French would help to gain the trust of the Cajun locals, despite the off dialect, and Nicky was to be the contact with Bianchi. This was something they had learned to exploit over the years, the comfort that came with assuming, just because someone spoke your native tongue, that you could trust them.

They weren’t given an exact arrival time, but that was par for the course, with runners. Pinning down an exact time and place opened the organization up to moles, set-ups, and sting operations. So Nicky and Joe were sat in one of Bianchi’s many Model T’s, Joe in the driver’s seat, Nicky to his right, binoculars in hand. They’d been here for three and a half hours, and it was beginning to look like they’d be here for many more. It was a test of loyalty, Bianchi had said, if a man would sit for hours, bored out of his mind, on orders. Little did he know they’d faced much, _much_ more trying tasks in their time.

This did not, however, ease the boredom. Joe had been enjoying New Orleans, perhaps too much. In their down time, he and Nicky had spent hours traversing the lively city, sampling the food, witnessing the culture. It was vivacious, and pulsing, and full of color and life, and it reminded Joe of home, a bit. The people were open and friendly, and the architecture was simply stunning. They’d even hit up one of the speakeasies one night, with a thinly veiled excuse of “well we should really see what we’re working toward.”

Really, they’d simply gone a little wild, as the opportunity so rarely arose, eventually ending up on the dance floor with each other, sloppily dancing the foxtrot and laughing at their collective four left feet. Naturally, they got the usual _looks_ , but a speakeasy was the ideal place for it—someone already partaking of illegal activities rarely spoke up.

And the city looked good on Nicky, too. He was relaxed here, and more talkative and social, although that might have just been the uninterrupted time spent with Joe making him giddy.

So sitting in a dark car for hours on end without even a book to read... it was getting to Joe. And as usual, the one thing he could always be counted on to enjoy... was Nicky.

“The fashion looks good on you,” he said, letting his eyes wander down Nicky’s chest. Their station within Bianchi’s inner circle called for more than just whatever they could get their hands on, and Joe was secretly very thankful for the opportunity to find his love in a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, high-waisted trousers that fit all of his natural angles _sinfully_ well, and suspenders that Joe’s fingers just _itched_ to snap playfully on Nicky’s back. Earlier in the week, they’d donned three-piece suits, and... well, they didn’t stay on very long, that was for sure.

“Grazie, Joe,” Nicky said genuinely, keeping the binoculars pressed to his eyes. Bianchi had taken to calling him Joey, which he knew Nicky despised on a cellular level, but of course he allowed their boss whatever nicknames he felt like, to keep him appeased. He was definitely a loaded cannon, Bianchi, and the two of them had had to make several moral concessions to work their way in, but nothing that couldn’t be rectified easily with some expert sneaking about.

“But it looks better on you, cuore mio.My heart You are a veritable canvas upon which the art of this century is painted.”

Joe felt himself blush. Nicky wasn’t always like this, good with his words, but the influence of the city appeared to be rubbing off on him.

“Pot calling the kettle black, my love. And do you know... the thing about art?”

He knew Nicky would sense the baiting tone, it was all a matter of if he took it.

“Mmmmm, what’s that?” Nicky said, wholeheartedly snatching up said bait.

“It’s, uh... it’s meant to be _appreciated_.”

With that, Joe slid his hand over and onto Nicky’s upper thigh, simply rubbing back and forth innocently, or as innocently as could be expected, given his end goal.

Nicky finally lowered the binoculars, tossing Joe a playfully scolding glare.

“Two things; one... really? _That’s_ your line? Yusuf ‘poet of the ages’ al-Kaysani, throwing that tired old line at me?”

Joe pouted, but accompanied it by a squeeze of Nicky’s thigh.

“And two; now? Now is the best time for this?”

“Well... what else are we gunna do with our time?!” Joe huffed.

“Our _job!”_ Nicky huffed back.

Joe pouted even more, dramatically so, puckering out his lower lip and crinkling up his eyebrows in the way he knew could shatter Nicky.

“Ohhh, don’t pout, per favore,” Nicky whined, “you’ll break my resolve.”

“In that case...” Joe grumbled, scooting over on the car’s bench seat to prop his chin on Nicky’s shoulder and bat his eyelashes at him pathetically. “You can’t look through those binoculars with my hands on you? _My mouth_?” He whispered the last words in a sensual breath, letting his eyes purposefully wander down to land on Nicky’s lips.

Joe could actually pinpoint the second Nicky broke, a punched-out breath leaving his lips in a gasp, and goosebumps rising on his exposed forearms. He turned his head just so, placing his lips mere centimeters from Joe’s, their foreheads joining for a moment as they stared, unblinking, into each other’s familiar eyes.

In a moment of such charged sexual tension, it was a shock of connection, of sensuality; of Nicky recognizing Joe’s barely contained need, his unspoken words—“another dangerous mission. I need to be close to you.”

Nicky grinned, nodding almost unnoticeably, before pecking a quick kiss to Joe’s lips and turning back to raise the binoculars once more.

“Anything of interest?” Joe asked, picking up the game as easily as if they’d never paused.

“Not really. Couple of kids smoking cigarettes on the docks, and an old man tethering his _yaaaaa—"_

Joe grinned at the reaction as he began unbuttoning Nicky’s trousers, making sure to press his knuckles in more than was strictly necessary.

Nicky cleared his throat, licking his lips dryly and swallowing hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, before finishing “yacht.”

Joe gave him a mischievous smirk as he shifted in the seat, lowering himself down Nicky’s body as he threaded his fingers into Nicky’s underwear and pulled him out. Nicky was already mostly hard, and his cock twitched and swelled more at just Joe’s touch.

“Eyes ahead soldier,” Joe whispered, slowly beginning to pump his hand up and down. “We’ve got a job to do, remember?”

Nicky obeyed, another convulsive swallow audible as Joe closed that last bit of distance and took him into his mouth.

He started torturously slow—suckling on the head and laving his tongue repeatedly over the sensitive underside.

Nicky groaned, his free hand coming up to grip shakily in Joe’s hair, and Joe reveled in the feeling. Nicky rarely tried to guide him when he did this, instead letting Joe go at whatever pace he felt like, but he always tried to maintain a connection of some sort.

Keeping a steadying fist at the base, Joe barely picked up the pace—taking Nicky only halfway into his mouth and then languidly pulling back to play at the head, the foreskin once more. Nicky had always been in possession of incredible patience, and he was displaying it now, but Joe could tell he wanted more. His thighs were beginning to tremble, and his hand on Joe’s nape was spasming slightly, gripping hard every time Joe managed something particularly pleasurable.

It was when Nicky’s legs lifted up off the seat and his torso curled slightly that Joe had a wicked idea.

He pulled up and off with a sucking _pop,_ and made a display of sitting upright, shoulder to shoulder with Nicky. He kept one hand gripping Nicky lightly, but kept it still.

Nicky let out an uncharacteristically loud and frustrated groan, his abdominal muscles twitching once.

Joe grinned, leaning in to kiss and lick at Nicky’s sharp jawline, following it up to his earlobe which he took into gentle teeth.

“Can I keep you like this, Nicolò?” he whispered, knowing his voice was gruff from sucking him, and also knowing what the use of Nicky’s full name did to him in moments of intimacy.

Just as Joe had anticipated, Nicky whimpered, throwing his head back and biting his lip. He swallowed again, and Joe watched his Adam’s apple move with something akin to hunger.

“We do have a lot of time on our hands,” Joe continued against Nicky’s ear. “We really should use it _wisely_...”

With that, he passed his thumb over the slit, spreading saliva and precome alike across it in just the tiniest of teases.

Nicky’s hips jumped, and the binoculars fell from his other hand to clatter down between the seat and the car door.

“Amore?” Joe asked, keeping his hand still this time.

“Yes,” Nicky croaked, licking his lips again. “The answer is yes, ya hayati. The answer is always yes.”

Joe smiled, migrating just barely down to place a soft, chaste kiss to the sensitive skin below Nicky’s ear. When he spoke, he spoke against Nicky’s heated skin, dragging his lips over the pulse point and feeling it jump for him.

“You know what to say when you can’t take it anymore.” It wasn’t a question, they both knew the word like they knew the taste of each other, but it was a reminder, insurance—Joe wanted nothing more than to give his love everything, but only as much as he could stand.

Nicky nodded emphatically in response, and Joe smiled, placing one last kiss to Nicky’s neck before returning to his task; crawling over to kneel on the floor of the car between Nicky’s legs.

For almost an hour, Joe worshipped his love, alternating between rhythmic pumps of his fist, long, languid sucks with his mouth, and sometimes simply rolling Nicky’s tight, drawn-up balls in his fingers. The small, intimate space filled with the sounds of Nicky’s heavy breaths, random, simpering moans, and the quiet shift of skin against skin. The windows quickly fogged over completely, and every time Nicky showed any signs of being close, Joe would back off, removing his touch entirely and reverting to simple kisses and whispered endearments.

At some point Nicky had unbuttoned his shirt so that he could get some air on his heated skin, panting and desperate as he was, and Joe had seized the opportunity to play over Nicky’s newly exposed nipples with teeth, tongue, and fingertips.

He wasn’t sure what finally tipped the scale almost right at the hour mark, he hadn’t introduced anything new, but he was just getting into a rhythm, his mouth on Nicky’s left nipple, his right hand pumping his furiously red and swollen cock, his left rolling his balls, when Nicky let out a guttural moan, back and hips bowing up off the seat.

“ _Girasole!”_ sunflower he practically shouted, hands gripping whatever was within reach, which turned out to be the upholstery in his left, and Joe’s hair in his right. He devolved quickly to whimpering pleas, “ _girasole, girasole, girasole!”_ as his hips canted into Joe’s hand helplessly, his jaw actually quivering as if he’d been left out in the cold.

Joe leaned back, removing everything but his hand on Nicky’s cock, and he pumped fast and tight. He was struck, probably for the millionth time in his life, by how beautiful Nicky was like this—head thrown back in ecstasy, shuddering like a leaf in a breeze, and gasping a litany of Italian, Arabic, and English words, sometimes mixing them all into one. Joe made a mental note to try and capture this otherworldly vision on paper at some point, but for now, he applied his artist’s hands to bringing his beloved to rapture.

It didn’t take long. After an hour of teasing, Nicky’s resolve had already been on a hair-pin trigger.

_“Yusuf, Yusuf... Dio, per favore, Io voglio, sono...”_ God, please, I want... I'm...

His barely formed thought cut off abruptly as he came, his entire body wracked with spasms. His cock twitched in Joe’s hand, his jets of come so powerful they hit the ceiling of the car. Joe smiled wide, entranced by the sight, and slowed his strokes to a much more leisurely pace as Nicky finally came down from the high of an incredibly intense orgasm.

“ _Cazzo... madre di Dio. Yusuf mio..._ ”fuck... mother of God. My Yusuf... he panted, his chest heaving and shining with sweat.

Joe slowly and gently released Nicky’s cock, knowing just how overly sensitive he would be after such a marathon, and he propped himself on Nicky’s thigh so that he could bring their lips together. Nicky’s were practically unresponsive, only following Joe’s belatedly, and he took this as a sign of a job well done.

“Bene, amore?”Good, love? Joe asked against Nicky’s lips.

Nicky sighed, bringing a terribly shaking hand up to brush his own sweaty hair from his forehead.

“Sì. Molto bene. Sempre,”Yes. Very Good. Always he panted, voice a mere whisper as he leaned in for a much more lively kiss.

He fell back then, his whole body going slack against the seat, and Joe climbed back up to sit next to him, scooting in as close as he could get and interlacing their fingers.

“Oops,” Nicky said lightheartedly, his free hand pointing up to the ceiling above him, where his come had marked the rag top.

Joe giggled, bringing their hands up to his lips, noting that Nicky’s was _still_ trembling, and kissing his love’s knuckles.

“We’ll tell Bubbles it was champagne,” he said, and Nicky laughed hard.

“I don’t think he’ll believe that for a second,” Nicky replied, squeezing Joe’s hand once in appreciation.

Joe shrugged, not really caring what the hell Bianchi thought, so long as Nicky was happy.

“Oh, shit!” Nicky gasped, yanking his hand from Joe’s and hurriedly stuffing himself back into his pants. “They’re here, look!”

Joe turned, finding a ship with a single candle on the bow already docked in the harbor.

Nicky hurried to exit the cab, tossing the door open with a muttered “andiamo, vai,”Let's go, go but it appeared his knees were weak, because he let out a startled sound, gripping the open car door for purchase as they buckled. Joe grinned triumphantly, appreciating this sight even more—Nicky, completely debauched and sweaty as he hurried to button up his shirt, fix his ruined hair, and manage to walk straight.

“Che cosa?what Come on, we gotta go, Andy...” Nicky said, trailing off as he clearly wondered why Joe wasn’t getting out of the car.

“Nothing,” Joe replied, shifting his hips and trying to situate his own hardness in his pants, as it would have to wait. “Just enjoying the view.”

Nicky scoffed affectionately and rolled his eyes. “Stai zitto.”Shut up.


	3. Warm Me Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that warrants the "brazen disregard for gun safety" tag. I don't recommend grabbing a sniper's ass.

Chicago, 1965

Yusuf groaned, he would admit a little dramatically, as he rapidly rubbed his gloved hands together, exhaled a hot breath into them, then rubbed his arms. Nine hundred years, and he’d never learned to like the cold; he would take a 100° day over a 30° one anytime. His skin had always loved heat, loved _sunshine._ He could spend whole days, from dawn til dusk, lazing about in those lovely, warm rays, shirt discarded somewhere and bare feet slapping against sand, concrete, grass, whatever.

Nicolò, though... he wasn’t a fan, per se, but he’d developed a certain affinity for the chillier months—he loved hot cider and mulled wine, thick sherpa blankets, and cozy knitted sweaters. He loved crackling fires and the crunch of snow underfoot. And most of all, he loved lazy mornings under mountains of sheets, his body pressed tightly to Joe’s to share warmth.

Which... fair. Joe couldn’t deny the appeal of those things either.

But currently, standing atop an industrial warehouse in south side Chi town, breath fogging and toes tingling with numbness... he hated it with a burning passion.

“I can _hear_ you thinking, my love,” Nicky’s voice cracked through the silence like splintering ice. Joe peered over to where Nicky was lying stomach down, M14 propped expertly in front of him, his hands steady as ever despite the cold.

“Sorry,” Joe said, continuing to pace in the hopes that his thighs and feet might warm with the movement. So far, no such luck. “It’s just so damned _cold.”_

Joe could tell that Nicky huffed an affectionate laugh only by the way his breath created a single cloud in front of his lips.

“I know,” Nicky replied, keeping his eye trained through the scope. “But the sooner we get this job done, the sooner I can _warm you up.”_

Before Joe could respond, the HT-200 in his hand buzzed to life with Booker’s voice.

“As much as I appreciate the visual, can we keep the boudoir talk _dans le boudoir_?”

Nicky chuckled again. “Oui, Book. Pardone moi.”

It was then that Andy’s voice chimed in, her voice fuzzy from the strain her distance put on the tech.

“Oh come on Book, let them talk. Maybe we’ll all get a little hot and bothered. I know I could use the heat.”

Joe laughed this time, as boisterous as he dared to be, when their mark could show at any moment.

The night fell silent then as the mirth died down, leaving only the sound of the boats in the dock rocking against the piers. Joe watched as Nicky fell into his carefully practiced sniper’s routine—he went deathly still, his breathing taking on a methodical rhythm; 3 second inhale, measured 7 second exhale. It was mesmerizing, the trance-like state Nicky easily set himself into, when positioned behind a weapon. It reminded Joe of the asps of his birthplace, posturing so expertly that they blended into their surroundings until finally, after practiced patience and skill, they struck with monstrously deadly speed.

Joe had seen, in lengthy detail, all the ways in which Nicky was like a snake. He tended to be underestimated, which was something he used to his advantage when taking down more enemies than even the Cobra could. Joe had also seen what those teeth could do, what _that mouth_ could do, and it could bring Joe down faster than any venom. But that was something else entirely.

He jolted as Andy’s voice struck through his reverie—“one bogie, coming in from the east. Speedboat, five passengers. No lights on board. I don’t see any weapons yet, stand by... wait, yeah, four on the bow with pistols, one on the stern controlling the motor. Book, the client?”

“Yep, black SUV, no plates, just pulled up. Idling without beams behind the second row of shipping crates, southwest side. Can’t tell how many passengers. Standing by. Your call, Andy.”

Joe turned the volume on the handheld down a notch, joining Nicky by the edge of the roof and sitting on the icy concrete next to him.

“You know the rules, Book. We gotta witness the sale before we can make our move. Sit tight.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

It was all rather routine after that, and Joe found his mind wandering again. He turned to watch Nicky, something he loved doing no matter the task—be it shuffling around the kitchen, washing in the shower, sleeping, reading. He was art in motion no matter what he was doing, but there was something especially hypnotic about watching his love behind a sniper rifle.

Laid out like this, his body was silhouetted against the dark rooftop like any of the great Grecian statues, the dip of his spine and the curve of his ass more divine than anything Michelangelo ever created. But it was his focus that caught Joe like a deer in the headlights, not just because he knew what it was to be the object of that focus.

Sparing a single thought about how rash this decision was, Joe smirked, pulling the glove off his left hand and allowing it to migrate back, shifting the cuff of Nicky’s trousers a bit, then finding the warm flesh of his ankle. The catch in Nicky’s breath did not go unnoticed as, with practiced finesse, Joe began rubbing rhythmic circles over the jutting of Nicky’s ankle bone.

“Yusuf... tesoro...”treasure

Full named. Only time would tell what _that_ entailed.

“I have the most powerful rifle on the market trained _just_ past Booker’s left ear. Basta.”Stop

Joe giggled, stilling but not removing his hand. He knew that, if their mark hadn’t shown up, Booker would have something to add, but as it was, the radio remained silent.

“Oh come now, Nicolò,” Joe retorted, throwing in his full name as he slugged back this particular fastball. “Surely you’ve dealt with distraction before, on a job. It’s good practice.”

With that, Joe followed the line of Nicky’s Achilles’ tendon up, pushing the trousers up as he went, and gently squeezing the muscle of his calf when he reached it. He knew the biting cold of the air was now accosting Nicky’s skin, but he also knew that the heat of his own palm was too—creating a snap of sensation.

Anyone who didn’t know Nicky would say he didn’t react at all. But Joe knew better.

It was as clear as a klaxon horn, the way Nicky’s practiced breathing faltered, the way his exhale came out choppy and created a few quick, foggy puffs in the frigid air. Pride flooded Joe’s veins, warming him to his very core—that he could still have this effect on his beloved with a single touch, after nearly 900 years.

But courtesy told him to check in, so he leaned in close and whispered, so quietly he was certain it wouldn’t be picked up over the radio, “do you really want me to stop, habibi? Of course I will, just say the word.”

There was a moment of silence, and although Joe couldn’t see Nicky’s face, buried as it was in the scope of his rifle, he just _knew_ he was grinning.

“Never, amore. You’re right. It’s good practice.”

Joe took that affirmation and ran with it—first caressing over the taut line of Nicky’s calf, then back down to shift back atop the fabric, which freed him to trace his searching fingers lightly up the sensitive back of Nicky’s knee, and onto his thigh. He grinned triumphantly when he felt a shiver course through Nicky, knowing it had nothing to do with the cold.

Joe had only had a moment to begin tracing the inner seam of Nicky’s trousers up, up, and _up,_ before all Hell broke loose down below. The cartel and the client had entered into a shootout, Joe didn’t catch who’d fired the first shot, and the radio jumped to life with Andy’s voice.

“Move, now! Book, cover the clients. I’ve got the big guy!”

Joe tensed, his hand gripping Nicky’s thigh just as Nicky fired two quick shots, taking down the cartel’s security detail as they spotted Andy moving in. The head honcho, not one to be taken for a mere lamb needing protecting, bent to pick up one of his goons guns, but Nicky was quicker—firing a single warning shot just inches away from the man’s hand, shattered concrete debris forcing him upright. He did a once over of the buildings, clearly noticing he presence of a sniper, and turned for the SUV that was still idling in the shipping crates.

Nicky’s rifle went off three more times, a rhythmic triple _pop pop pop,_ and two of the SUV’s tires went flat, causing it to list to the right. The third shot sent steam and smoke rising from the speedboat’s motor, cutting off any and all escape routes. The ringleader turned to run, but he was no match for Andy’s speed, her gait catching up to him in four long strides and tackling him to the ground, arms pinned behind his back.

The clients, or rather the Government contractors that had hired Andy, slowly rose from their cover behind a shipping crate, looking dazed but very impressed that they had exactly what they’d asked for—the leader of the cartel, alive, and a whole boats’ worth of evidence against him.

Nicky inhaled, long and low, then pressed it out between pursed lips, and this too was part of his routine—centering himself with a calming breath or two after the job was done, to remove himself from that headspace. Joe exhaled with him, only then realizing that he was still gripping Nicky’s thigh, just below his bum, rather tightly.

He went to remove it, but Nicky struck like a snake, keeping Joe’s hand where it was. With his other hand, Nicky bumped the safety notch on the rifle, and then he was twisting onto his back, causing Joe to half-fall on top of him.

“How much time before it’s suspicious that we aren’t coming down?” Nicky asked, sounding much more breathless than he’d let on with his previous calm.

Joe grinned wickedly, letting his weight come down fully and feeling Nicky’s hardness pressing insistently up against his hip.

He leaned down, playing at a kiss, but instead just allowed his lips to tease over Nicky’s, barely even a touch, before speaking gruffly against them.

“3 or 4 minutes, give or take. You usually clean and pack up the rifle, when you have time.”

With that, he teased at Nicky’s lips again, feeling the shaky, uneven gasp he let out as Joe used the hand still grasping his thigh to palm upward and cup his ass.

“I can work with that,” Nicky groaned, eyes sliding closed as he wrapped his arms around Joe’s neck, keeping him trapped against him, their shared body heat quickly banishing all thoughts of the cold. “I’m going to be _very_ thorough, this evening.”

“With the gun, you mean?” Joe parleyed, enjoying the game just as much as he enjoyed the way Nicky began to slowly rock his hips against him.

“Y-yes... the _gun,”_ Nicky groaned, head tipping back to expose his statuesque throat as his hips quickly picked up pace. Normally, they took their time with each other, but time was of the essence, as was this tiny hint of privacy they’d found for themselves.

Joe took the opportunity that Nicky’s exposed throat provided, leaning in to lave his tongue up his pounding carotid, then biting gently but firmly on the muscle at the juncture of neck and shoulder. He combined that with the migrating of his hand around the front of Nicky’s hip, where he wasted no time palming his love’s hardness to the rhythm of his thrusts.

Nicky keened as quietly as he could manage, a full-body shudder telling Joe he was already close.

“Sì, Yusuf, cuore mio, sì, per favore,” Nicky whimpered, a hand coming to grip at Joe’s nape, his fingers gathering up a half-handful of curls and beanie alike. The beanie slid back, exposing Joe’s ears to the cold, but he couldn’t care less. He loved the way Nicky always reverted back to Italian when he was like this, the way he went mindless with pleasure.

“Shhhh, shh, shh, amore, silenzio, _silenzio,”_ Quiet Joe whispered against Nicky’s neck, pressing even harder with his palm on Nicky’s groin and tipping his fingertips inward to cup at Nicky’s balls.

Nicky went stone still for only a single second, then he was shuddering apart, hips rolling weakly as he clearly came, hard, in his pants. He whined through each powerful spasm of his hips, and Joe stilled, allowing Nicky to find his pleasure how he wanted it, against Joe’s hand.

He stilled again with a satisfied groan, relaxing back against the roof, his face set in a lovely, beet-red state of bliss.

It was only when Joe shifted for comfort that he noticed his own throbbing hardness, his need blossoming hot in his gut.

Nicky noted Joe’s moan of discomfort, and immediately shifted—sliding a leg between Joe’s and lifting until his strong, thick thigh contacted Joe’s groin.

He grunted, so sensitive that even that contact had his heartbeat rising and his toes curling in his shoes.

Nicky angled his head up, speaking directly into the shell of Joe’s ear.

“Use me, habib albi.”

Joe didn’t need to be told twice—with hapless abandon, he rolled his hips down against Nicky’s thigh, his cock receiving plenty of pressure and friction from the motion. So much so that it only took four or five good thrusts of his hips, before he was pulsing hard into his pants, uncontrolled groans escaping with every euphoric spasm.

He went still, noting with a hint of glee that he was now _very_ warm.

“I appreciate the attempt at subtlety, guys, but next time you might want to turn the radio _off.”_

It wasn’t the first time they’d been caught by Booker, and it wouldn’t be the last, but that didn’t stop both of them from blushing furiously and giggling like teens caught in the back seat.

“Did you at least warm up, Joe?” Andy’s voice chimed in, mirth clear in her upbeat voice.

“Uh... yeah, boss,” Joe replied with a painfully wide grin and a knowing look tossed at Nicky.

“Well... that’s what matters. We’re all good down here, if you two are.”

“Sì, Andy, spiacente,” Nicky replied as Joe pushed back to kneel, helping Nicky to sit up too.

“Never apologize, Nicky.”


	4. The Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just 3000+ words of Nicky thirsting over how good his husband looks in a 3-piece suit. If you'd like a visual, [here you go](https://pin.it/aLDK85R).  
> This chapter is not explicit.

Zurich, 2006

This wasn’t the first time Nicky had been in the Alps, but it was the first time he’d been in them _alone._

The others were all back at the safe house, preparing for the mission. Nicky had needed to leave early to make the difficult hike through the mountainous terrain and find a suitable sniper’s nest. And he had, picking out a prime location and digging out a level place to lie, perfectly shrouded by greenery and rocky outcroppings. And it had a perfect, unobstructed view of the target’s... house? Mansion? Manor? Nicky didn’t know what to call it. The grandiose nature called to mind _castle_ , but for the painfully modern architecture. It was all shiny metal and full, wide glass windows, impeccably maintained tennis courts, and unnaturally clean pool. It was as if they employed a team of people just to remove every leaf that fell, every insect that dared tread on their smooth, ice-like concrete.

Nicky fell into his routine with the practiced ease of one who’d been doing this since long before rifles were even invented—carving out his roost, laying down a blanket so that the cool earth wouldn’t make his trigger hand shiver, clearing the perimeter, and cleaning the rifle for good measure, even though he’d already done that last night (to a chorus of “hayati, we both know you’re going to do that again tomorrow, come to bed”).

After that, it was a game of hurry up and wait. Nicky would have loved to make a small fire for himself, put on a pot, and make himself a coffee, the old-fashioned way. But he couldn’t risk the smoke being seen by the target’s security detail, so he had to settle for a thermos of cold coffee from that morning. Joe had done his best to doctor it (“don’t you know, cuore mio, iced coffee is all the rage nowadays!”), but it was still unsatisfying. But because his love had put his heart and soul into dressing it up, Nicky downed the whole thing.

After that he sat on his blanket and did his breathing exercises—Andy called it meditation, Booker called it daydreaming, Joe called it sexy. Whatever it was, it had stemmed from how he used to pray, somewhat. It was a leveling technique, something he used to calm his body and mind.

It started, as it usually did, with kneeling; his hands resting palm-up on either thigh, head turned upwards, eyes serenely closed. He measured his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Three second inhale, seven second exhale. He tried to clear his mind, think of nothing but the wind through the leaves, the song of the birds, the shift of the earth... but that rarely happened. He thought of Joe, most of the time, and the calming grounding effect he had on Nicky’s psyche. He had a way of anchoring Nicky, just with his presence. Somehow, over the years, they had developed a keen sense of each other’s location, always. Even in pitch darkness, even when they’d lost their eyes to injury... they knew where the other was, always. Like sonar, or echolocation. If asked to explain what it felt like, Nicky knew he’d never find the right words, but perhaps it was something like a gravitational pull—a weight, a presence, a tether in the wind. He could feel the vibrations of Joe’s movement, his breath, the weight of his footfalls, and act accordingly... like a waltz, 1000 years in the making.

Nicky grinned to himself, opening his eyes to find that he was doing it again—the fingers of his left hand cradling the back of his right wrist, thumb wrapped around to caress over the pulse point.

It was something he did when separated from Joe, and he hadn’t even realized it until around 1108, when Joe had drawn him doing it. It made sense though, this subconscious urge, this second-nature reassurance—it was how they slept, most nights, Joe at Nicky’s back, arm draped protectively around him, hand gently gripping Nicky’s wrist. It was like the rocking of a pram, for Nicky, the repetitive and soothing motion of Joe’s thumb against the sensitive skin. Truth be told, Nicky had only a few times, in all their time together, been awake to feel Joe’s movements start to slow, feel his thumb go still as he fell asleep. Nicky was always out first, thanks to that simple act.

Separating from Joe was never _easy_ , especially on missions, but he’d adapted to it the way he’d adapted to telephones, and new languages, and that monstrosity that was jarred pasta sauce—with a healthy detachment. It wasn’t as if either of them went catatonic with worry every time they separated, they were perfectly functional. But it was always there, the knowledge of their love’s absence, like a peeling scab, a gnawing splinter. Those vibrations that defined Nicky’s awareness, his gravity, all of it was thrown off, just a bit. He’d learned how to correct... but it wasn’t enjoyable.

Before he knew it, the sun had set and headlights were beginning to show on the drive up to the manor. Nicky settled in behind his rifle, watching as guest after guest was welcomed inside. A small band had begun playing, mostly strings, and the muted sound was echoing somewhat pleasantly throughout the foothills. “Rich people music,” Booker had called it with a scoff.

Nicky grinned, watching as the attendant welcomed guests inside, and the valet parked cars that may have rivaled the house in value.

Nicky hadn’t spent the entire previous day going through the target’s dossier like Joe had, but what he knew was enough.

It had been a simple story, cut and dry, really, if you asked the multiple governments that had investigated. The kingpin of a major black market arms operation died under suspicious circumstances. His operation had crumbled under the weight of his absence, men scrambling for power and riches and thinning their own numbers in the process. And then the whole thing collapsed, and the illegal arms trade lost a major player. Case closed.

Only that wasn’t what happened. The kingpin’s grieving wife (and she had put on an excellent show, many a mascara-drenched tear had been publicly shed for her husband, who she said was in banking) had taken up the mantle, and she was _brilliant._ She allowed her husband’s men their infighting, used it as leverage to weed out the weak, the disloyal. Then she’d installed an entirely new regime, from the ground up, completely rebuilding her husband’s empire, and doing it much better. She was cleaner, swifter, crossed her T’s and dotted her I’s. She was uncatchable, untraceable, unlike her husband had been, and what was worse—she had no qualms about her customers. If you had money, you were her new best friend. She made her new empire on the blood of innocents—selling to countries that had been cut off by the UN, selling to violent dictators convicted of war crimes. She sold chemical weapons to those who had more than once been caught gassing _children._

She was bad. But she sure did curate an incredible facade; a mask of opulence and extravagance that both threw off the hounds (surely such a party girl had no time for _arms dealing_ ), and served to constantly shuffle and impress clientele. She hosted kings and sultans, presidents and prime ministers, and even a few celebrities. In fact this very evening, rumor had it the entire Rockette troupe would be in attendance, with the tantalizing hint that they would be bringing _bikinis._ All speculation, of course, but it did explain why so many guests were showing up on time or even early.

The target, Sabine Jäger, was wearing an offensively elegant Navy dress, with rich black floral embroideries all adorned with (probably very real and very blood-covered) diamonds. Nicky had been watching her movements for the better part of an hour now—studying how she moved about the space, what she drank, how much she drank, who she mingled with. It was a boring study, but a necessary one, as...

_“Santo Maria, madre de Dio...”_ Holy Mary, mother of God

Nicky felt his breath leave him as if he’d been kicked hard in the chest by a Clydesdale.

“Oh, you hadn’t noticed we’d arrived?” Andy’s voice jumped through Nicky’s forgotten ear piece, but he hardly heard her. His entire body, his entire soul, every sense and then some was honed on the vision currently hovering in the scope.

Joe was in a three-piece suit, slim fit and excellently tailored. Of course he was never one for blacks and whites, “life is nothing without a little _color_!”, and tonight was no different—the jacket was a rich cobalt blue, more stunning by far than the hostess’s dress, with a slight but subtle floral pattern, a sharp peak lapel, and accenting silver pocket square. The waistcoat was simple black to match the painfully cute bow tie. And it all stood out against a crisp white shirt.

When Nicky had left that morning, placing a quick kiss to Joe’s cheek as he sat at the table drinking his coffee and going over the dossier again, Joe had been scraggly and bed-rough, wearing nothing but his pants and a simple purple tee. That look was among Nicky’s favorite things on the planet, with such company as authentic pomodoro sauce and good, aged red wine.

But this rivaled it—someone, likely Andy, as Booker was complete shite with a barber’s blade, had trimmed Joe’s curls and beard to a breath-stealingly rugged length, and just the sight made Nicky’s fingers itch to touch. Joe held himself with such grace and poise, he blended right in with the swaths of high-class assholes, but he was never one to mute down his personality, and it was clear that, within seconds of entering the party, a vast majority were drawn to his warmth, his friendly aura. Andy was a little more conspicuous, having refused to wear a dress and instead donning a pantsuit herself, one with matching colorations to Joe’s. Sure, it might attract a little attention, but it was, unfortunately, still a man’s world, and most guests would write her off as Joe’s eccentric arm candy. Nicky grinned at the thought that this assessment was completely ass-backwards. If anything, Joe was the arm candy.

“Nicky? Still with us?”

Yet again, Nicky felt as though he’d been doused with icy water, and he cleared his throat, debating whether he should slap himself back into focus.

“Yeah, boss. Still here. Target is...”

He had to shift his rifle a bit, scanning the crowd for her, as he’d completely lost track in his Joe-ogling stupor.

“On the balcony, with... uh... the Rockettes.”

“Well mark that in my ledger of things I never thought I’d hear on the job,” Booker’s voice broke in, and Nicky snorted a laugh, training his sight over to the carport, where he noted the brief, bright-red glow of the tip of Booker’s cigarette lighting up his simple chauffeur’s uniform.

“Keep an eye on her, Nicky, I know she’s using this whole shit show to make a sale,” Andy grumbled, and through his scope, he saw her snatch a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter’s tray and down it.

The party picked up rather quickly after that, with a frankly disturbing number of people filling the space, so much that most were forced outside onto the large, sweeping balcony. If they hadn’t been paid to stay away, the fire brigade would have probably had something to say about the capacity.

Nicky watched their target like a hawk... well... a slightly distracted hawk. Target mingles with guests, Joe makes nice with a foreign affairs minister. Target requests a song of the band, Joe wanders out to the balcony to inhale the cool evening air. Target ensures a fine collection of refreshments makes the rounds, and Joe...

Joe never drank when he was on a job. In fact Joe hardly partook except on very special occasions, but he knew how suspicious and paranoid people became when confronted with someone who doesn’t drink. Historically, people wanted to be assured that those around them were just as depraved. Or they wanted to make sure no one was sober to remember how depraved they’d gotten, one of the two.

So Joe had taken a glass of champagne when offered by the roaming waiter, and he was now entertaining a visibly inebriated wife of someone important, while Andy did the rounds. “Looking for the bathroom,” as was her usual excuse. Joe and his new friend were leaning on the balcony railing, laughing and talking about whatever rich people deigned as suitable dinner party conversation, and every time the lady would look away, Joe would tip the glass ever so slightly over the railing, allowing a sip’s worth of champagne to disappear into the pitch black void below. And every time, it was funnier than the last, until Nicky had to remove his hand from the rifle’s trigger guard, lest he make a mistake in his fit of giggles.

“Ti amo, you silly idiot,” he mumbled, noting the way Joe’s eyebrows raised in affirmation that he’d heard.

Finally, the collective blood/alcohol level had reached such a point to warrant dancing, and suddenly the band was much larger and much livelier. Dinner jackets came off and were draped over the nearest possible waiter’s arm, stilettos were discarded in corners, and the Rockettes made good on their deal. Inside, Joe was still entertaining the drunken wife, who seemed to have taken quite the shining to him ( _who wouldn’t_ , Nicky thought), and she had somehow goaded him onto the dance floor.

Nicky had felt his heart stop many, _many_ times in his life, but none was ever so devastating as when Joe danced—he moved so gracefully, like a swan alighting on a lake, and he delighted so beautifully. He never half-assed a smile (the most valuable currency, he called them), and he was always open and _safe_ , like a walking blanket. Despite having perhaps the _worst moves ever bestowed upon a woman,_ the wife was made to feel important, respected, and befriended, just by Joe’s complete enthusiasm for her dedication. He clapped, and laughed, and made a deliberate fool of himself just to make her feel better when she misstepped. He fetched her drinks when she tired, and when she got her second wind, he followed her back to the dance floor.

And as the night wore on, a slow song playing to dull the fevered frenzy of earlier, she became drunkenly emotional. Nicky and Joe knew intimately that money did not equal happiness, God only knew what torments she suffered in her life, and Joe was right there to hold her, sway with her to the beat of the song.

Joe and Nicky had, in their time, learned almost every dance known to man. The evolution of dance, how close people were to stand, how fast they were to move, seemed to have been a dance in and of itself—always morphing always changing—step apart, come together, hold hands, don’t touch, slow and sensual, lively and bouncy. They had spent a little bit of down time at The Albemarle Club in London before the turn of the century, a few years before the Wilde incident in fact, and it was there they had learned a great deal of it, including the two-step, the schottische, and the waltz. But nothing had ever shown off the duality of Joe’s passion and his calm like a simple slow dance.

When you were in his arms, you felt completely, totally, and undoubtably _safe_ , and yet not caged. His arms weren’t a prison cell, keeping you subdued, no... they were Corinthian columns holding you up, they were an easel displaying your fine strokes. They were a warm blanket on a cold evening.

And the way he swayed was hypnotic—an easy, smooth rhythm that could lull anyone to sleep within moments. The hum of his voice a lullaby, the broadness of his chest a firm mattress upon which to lay your weary head. Just watching Joe dance forced a tingle at the back of Nicky’s neck, made every muscle in his body ache to be the one held by him. He found, quite suddenly and quite excruciatingly, that he could no longer stand the distance, could no longer cope with it.

“..... is she?! Nicky?! She disappeared out the back, I couldn’t follow, her damn goons were on top of it. Who did she leave with? Where are they?”

Nicky frantically trained his scope to the balcony, the sliding glass door below, the pool, the tennis courts... niente.nothing No lights to hint at where she’d been, no burning cigarettes to hone in on.

“Uh... I don’t... I can’t...” Nicky mumbled, mentally chastising himself for becoming so distracted.

“Booker,” Andy interrupted when it was clear Nicky didn’t have her answer. “Anything out on the carport? Did she leave with anyone?”

“No boss, nothing out here but a bunch of bored chauffeurs.”

A sigh buzzed over the comms, and then Andy spoke, her tone that of a chastising mother.

“Nicky...?”

Shame and guilt flooded over Nicky, and he angrily pushed himself upright, away from the weapon—it wasn’t a good mindset to be in when one’s finger was millimeters from the trigger.

“Nicky... what were you doing? How could you lose her?!”

Unable to admit to the rookie mistake just yet, he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and propping his other hand on his hip.

There was a long, knowing silence, and when Andy spoke again, disappointment was still clear, but underneath it, hiding in dulcet tone of her familiar voice, there was something fond, something understanding and kind.

“You were admiring Joe in that suit, weren’t you?”

Nicky’s throat closed up, and he felt his cheeks burn hot with embarrassment. 900+ years... all this time, and something so amateur could still happen to him. Joe could still get to him, lay him out like a newbie, even from 826m away.

Andy sighed again, but this time Nicky could actually _hear_ the grin in her voice.

“I can’t entirely blame you. He does look damn good. Props to Book, he picked out the wardrobe.”

“Uh... thanks boss...” both Joe and Booker replied awkwardly in tandem.

“Well... that’s it, then, pack it up, we’ll try again another day. And Book... next time, you’re my husband,” Andy said flatly, but the grin was still present in her tone.

“I don’t know whether to be happy with the promotion or offended at the implication that I _wouldn’t_ distract Nicky in a nice suit.”

Finally, upon hearing the far too understanding voices of his family, Nicky was able to speak.

“Don’t take offense Booker,” he said, knowing his own tone sounded defeated. “There never was nor will there ever be an Adonis in existence that could tear my eyes from him.”

Three sets of giggles, all warm and comfortingly unique, rang out in Nicky’s earpiece.

“Don’t feel bad, habibi,” Joe’s voice said, and it was as if those arms were enveloping Nicky, pulling him close and warming him to his very bones, and the shame melted away instantly to nonexistence. “We’ll get her. It’s just gunna take a little extra work. For now though, let’s get back to the safe house, and you can admire up close.”

Nicky had never packed up his shit faster.


	5. By Your Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, Nicky distracts Joe. Unashamedly inspired by [that one gifset](https://ngoveronicas.tumblr.com/post/632149445280251904) of Luca in _A Dangerous Fortune_.

Malta, 2019

There was a look that Joe gave him that set Nicky’s very veins on fire. He didn’t get it often as, after 900+ years of crowded safe houses and shared hotel rooms, they both had developed carefully honed patience. But sometimes, and often in the most inopportune of times, Joe would give him _that look._

One might describe it as _flat_ , if one didn’t know Joe so well. Instead, Nicky knew it as so deeply charged with desire, with need, with passion, that all other emotions ceased to exist. It was wild and hungry, warm espresso eyes glaring through low, powerful brows. The lips tilted up at one side to form a knowing and yet analytical grin that could instantly have Nicky half-hard in his pants. That look said “I need you. I need you _right now._ ” That look could stop Nicky’s heart in its rhythmic tracks, far better than any blade or bullet.

And sometimes Joe didn’t even realize he was doing it. These times, more often than not, Joe was studying Nicky for the purpose of drawing him, and now was no different.

“The city looks good on you. Bright, colorful. _Content_. I’d like to capture it,” Joe had said that morning as they enjoyed far too many fresh-baked pastries from the hotel’s breakfast bar, and an expertly crafted espresso that nearly had Nicky’s eyes rolling back.

“You say that in every city, my love,” Nicky had said fondly without even looking up from his newspaper.

“Do I? Hm. Must be true then,” Joe had snapped back, as if the response had been loaded from the start.

Now, though, Nicky was sitting on the room’s antique settee, in the sunshine spilling in from the balcony. Joe had dragged that settee all over the room that afternoon (Nicky couldn’t even imagine the raucous noise it caused for the downstairs guests), looking for the perfect light. And when he’d landed here, golden sunlight cascading through the wide open balcony doors, and a gentle breeze sending the ivory chiffon under-curtains billowing lightly into the room, he’d gasped “bellissimo!”beautiful

The rules were simple, and Nicky had known them for nearing 900 years—Nicky was to lounge on the settee in whatever general position Joe placed him in, and he was to move very little. This was just as well, because whenever Joe decided to draw him, Nicky used the time to read. He was on a bodice ripper kick, currently. He was aware of exactly how lame that was, knew the reputation these kinds of books had. But something about them appealed to him; whether it was the single serving nature (meaning he could leave them behind if they vacated their safe house suddenly, and not be too upset by it), or if it was the fiery passion of them that pulled him in, he might never know. But he enjoyed their cheesy little stories, the fact that very little plot was involved. Just love.

And Joe always rewarded Nicky when he posed for him, whether it be with a night on the town, a very nice bottle of Chianti or Pinot Noir, a heart-stopping kiss, or even, when time and privacy dictated, a mind-blowing orgasm.

Speaking of, Nicky was just getting to the really good part in his book, but found that he wasn’t even able to concentrate on it, because...

Joe was so goddamn beautiful, especially when he was so lost in concentration like this.

Positioned as he was, mostly in the shadows to the right of the balcony door, his features were thrown into sharp relief by the dramatic shifts in darkness. The room was still well-lit enough to merit drawing, as light was just as important for Joe as it was for his subject, but... those shadows beneath his powerful brows made his intensely focused honey-espresso eyes even more striking. They would periodically look up, studying Nicky’s every line with such brazen absorption, it made Nicky shiver—the way Joe’s eyes caressed over him, analyzed him, honed in on him... it was almost intoxicating. It almost felt more exposing, more intimate even than being naked for him, writhing beneath him.

Of course he’d sat for Joe before, posed a thousand different ways in a thousand different cities, and he’d watched Joe go into this dazed and almost hypnotized state when drawing, but... it never ceased to be beautiful. The novelty of it, the sheer God-like benevolence he always felt when watching his beloved as he effortlessly created masterpieces... it never grew old, never grew tiresome.

Perhaps more transcendent even than Joe’s eyes were his _hands_ as he worked. Nicky had always loved them, loved the duality of their power—they were both weapons of righteous justice, strangling the breath from many a deserving victim, and tools of incredible passion and gentleness. Hours after pulling triggers and grenade pins alike, they could be found easing down Nicky’s neck with such a light touch as to barely be felt. They could wrest screams from the unworthy, and moans of ecstasy from just one. Their strength was undeniable, their tenderness even more so...

“You’ve stopped reading, my love...” Joe said in that distracted tone that suggested he was still concentrating on a singular line or piece of shading.

“Mm, yes. Preoccupied,” Nicky replied, slipping the Lidl receipt back into the pages and plopping the book down onto the floor in front of the settee.

“With?” Joe asked, sticking his tongue between his lips as he leaned in and brushed a finger rapidly back and forth on the paper, and Nicky was very glad he was immortal just then, because his heart stopped.

“Tu, sempre,”You, always Nicky replied, the words already waiting on his tongue to be set free.

Joe grinned, falling silent again as his head tilted adorably like a puppy to scrutinize something on the paper, and suddenly Joe was far more interesting than any book. He was gorgeous when he was submerged in his art—becoming art himself in the way he moved, the way he hummed occasionally, the way he was _consumed_ by the act. He threw his whole heart into it, no matter if it was a warm-up sketch or a wall-sized mural, just as he threw his heart into everything. Nicky supposed he should be jealous of the pages, taking up those hands and that heart which were rightfully his. But he couldn’t, not with the way Joe’s face went so serene, all hint of worry and violence gone.

Nicky was lulled into a blissful state of relaxation as he watched Joe work, the _scritch_ of his charcoal and the _swish_ of his finger as he used it for smudging mixing with the sounds of the ocean outside, the bustling streets to create an almost therapeutic white noise.

That is until Joe looked up from his page, and that look of refined focus had changed, morphed in a matter of seconds, into _that look._ He clearly didn’t realize, as he was still lost to his work, but Nicky immediately noted the subtle difference—the way he slowly licked across his lower lip, then sucked it between his teeth to bite it. He wondered abstractly which part of his body Joe was drawing that had him reacting in such a way. Was it the obvious option—the shadows created by the way Nicky was filling out his slacks? Or was it one of the many other things that Joe loved? He often waxed poetic about Nicky’s slim but sturdy hands, his thin but lush lips, his broad shoulders. It could be anything, really, as it was for Nicky—just about everything about his beloved was a turn on.

Briefly, Nicky considered leaping from the couch and pouncing on Joe, tackling him to the floor and plastering their lips together, their bodies. But Joe had asked so sweetly when he sat Nicky down on the settee, “do your best to stay still for me, habibi,” and followed it up with a chaste kiss to the top of his head. And Nicky would be damned if he broke a promise to Joe, especially such a darling one.

What to do, then? Because the sudden fire he felt for Joe was persistent, trailing down his spine like dripping hot wax and pooling in his gut, and it didn’t seem to be waning, especially the longer he watched _that look_ on Joe’s lovely face.

With an emboldened inhale, he dragged his right hand from where it was draped on the seat back, allowing it to migrate very slowly, hopefully unnoticeably slowly, down to his crotch. Once there, he gripped himself through his slacks, allowing the outline of his semi-hard length to fill his hand.

And the next time Joe looked up from his work, he went statue-still, his breath catching and the color draining from his face.

“Tesoro... stai facendo?” Treasure... what are you doing Joe asked, his voice thin and strung out. But there was something hiding underneath the shock, something playful and goading.

“Niente, caro mio.Nothing, my dear Keep drawing,” Nicky replied, squeezing himself and beginning to rub lazily up and down. It wasn’t enough to drive the need to unbearable levels, but it was enough to make him fully hard.

Nicky watched Joe’s face intently for that moment, that tiny little acquiescence to the game, the accepting of the invitation. And he saw it immediately—Joe swallowed convulsively, inhaled, grinned, and returned to the page.

“You torture me, Nicolò,” Joe said teasingly.

“I want to be good for you,” Nicky said, knowing exactly what his words would do, and watching as he was proven right—Joe tensed, though he clearly tried to hide it, and a vein rose with the tension in his temple. “You told me to move as little as possible. And to be fair...”

He stilled his hand, beginning to circle the outline of the tip of his cock with a thumb. Tingling sensitivity shot through him, and his abdominal muscles spasmed slightly in reaction.

“I am moving very little,” Nicky finished, allowing his eyes to drift closed as he luxuriated in the easy arousal that pulsed through him.

To his credit, Joe tried to get back to work, but it was clear in the tight clench of his jaw, the halting motion of his drawing hand, the quick, punched-out breaths, that he was failing miserably. And within five minutes, the drawing pad and charcoal stick all hit the floor next to his chair, accompanied by a surrendering sigh.

“Vieni qui,”Come here he commanded, eyes alight and hungry.

Nicky allowed the triumphant grin to slowly spread across his lips, but instead of pouncing like he wanted to, he stood sensually, taking his time as he began unbuttoning the sky blue shirt Joe had asked him to wear. He watched Joe intently the entire time, appreciating the way his eyes raked down Nicky’s chest as it was bared to him, the way he licked his lips as Nicky moved on to the trousers. And finally, the way he practically whined when Nicky stood upright, completely naked, cock painfully hard.

Nicky sauntered forward, silently thanking whoever had decorated this particular hotel room for the large, spacious chair Joe had adopted for his drawing. He watched with fascination as Joe’s expression went from adoring to lust-filled as Nicky slowly lowered himself to straddle a completely clothed Joe.

He gripped at Joe’s left hand, which was twitching to touch, intending to take those skilled fingers into his mouth. He paused though, finding them completely covered in charcoal.

Nicky allowed his triumphant smile to morph into a very wicked one, placing Joe’s hand on his own chest as he leaned in to nip at Joe’s earlobe, voice hushed.

“I’m your canvas now, cuore mio. _Mark me...”_

The words were like an electric shock, launching Joe into desperate action—his hands quickly wrapping around Nicky to forcefully yank their bodies tightly together. Nicky let out a yelp that devolved into a moan as Joe went to work—hands caressing down his back to his ass, mouth exploring and licking at Nicky’s collar bones.

Joe’s hands migrated back around front, splaying out beneath Nicky’s pecs and pushing slightly, suggesting he lean back for him. Nicky obliged, wrapping his arms around Joe’s neck to ensure he didn’t go toppling off backward, and he gasped as Joe’s hot mouth found a nipple. He mouthed gently at it for a moment, replacing his hands on Nicky’s back to support him, all the while tracing a path to the other nipple with his tongue. Nicky sucked in a breath, albeit a bit theatrically as he wallowed in the little jolts of pleasure Joe’s tongue wrought, but the effect was inspired. Joe groaned, leaning back upright, bringing Nicky with him, and rolled his hips up, making his erection very obvious.

“Baciami adesso,”Kiss me, now he begged, tipping Nicky’s chin down with a charcoal-covered thumb, and Nicky obliged this too, leaning in to press their lips together, all the while threading his finger’s into Joe’s slightly grown-out curls and _gripping._

The whimper Joe released against Nicky’s mouth was much louder this time, and he reveled in the desperate tone of it, the way Joe’s mouth opened wider with it, allowing Nicky to slip his tongue inside.

They kissed languidly for a moment, the urgency barely ebbed by the way they both shifted against each other, the way Joe’s hands were _everywhere—_ one wrapping around Nicky’s neck, a thumb at the pulse point, one meandering down to grip Nicky’s hip and control the speed of his movements.

Nicky’s cock was getting just barely enough friction against Joe’s trousers, and he couldn’t even imagine the strain of being trapped in them.

“Let me,” he gasped against Joe’s lips, halting the kiss and simply panting with him for a moment to center himself before lowering both hands between them to sensually pop the button and lower the zipper.

Joe hissed in anticipation, holding Nicky’s gaze with a burning intensity that sent goosebumps down his arms and made him desperate for his kiss once more. He leaned in, much more passionate this time, licking into Joe’s mouth and tasting the moan he elicited when he pushed Joe’s briefs down and pulled his impressively hard length out.

Joe’s hands spasmed as Nicky pressed them together and began lazily stroking, a pressure closing on Nicky’s neck and ass. He felt the easy scrape of Joe’s fingernails, and he faltered, a whimper of his own escaping.

If there was one thing he lamented most about being immortal, about healing almost instantly, it was that Joe couldn’t mark him with the proof of their lovemaking—he’d never admire a hickey, he’d never brush over a hand-shaped bruise, he’d never cherish the crescent moon indentations of nails, of teeth. But he adored the feeling of it happening, even if it wouldn’t stay, and Joe knew it too.

It always shocked him when he became bashful about things, especially with someone who knew him inside and out, but it still happened from time to time, and it was happening now—shyness suddenly rising at the unhinged reaction he’d had at feeling Joe’s fingernails.

He collapsed forward to hide his face against Joe’s temple, inhaling the scent of Joe’s bergamot shampoo as he started pumping his hips along with the movement of his hand up and down their joined cocks.

“Don’t hide from me, love,” Joe whispered, hands roving down to smooth up and down Nicky’s thighs where they were encasing him. “It’s okay. I know what you want.”

With that, his hands were suddenly on both of Nicky’s hips, gripping hard and encouraging his movements. Nicky sighed with the reassurance, pulling back to rest their foreheads together as he subtly sped up both the movement of his hips and of his hand.

Joe groaned, meeting Nicky’s eyes so earnestly that any hint of bashfulness was obliterated, and the heat began to build, and build, and build. He wasn’t sure which of them was responsible, probably both if he was honest, but precome had, at some point, coated Nicky’s palm, making the glide of his grip smoother, more pleasurable. He spared a few thoughts to giving little twists at the end, passing his thumb over the tip of both of them, and they both bucked into it, groaning against each other’s faces. Nicky’s thighs had begun to tremble with the exertion, but he didn’t care, not in the slightest. With Joe’s strong hands at his hips, helping him along, the struggle only added to the need.

A need which quickly ratcheted higher, Nicky’s balls throbbing as they tightened with every delicious thrust.

“I’m close, my love,” he gasped, both a statement and a question; _“I’ll keep going like this if you want me to, but if you ask, I’ll slow down.”_

“Just a little more for me, Nicolò,” Joe keened, and that was all Nicky needed—slowing his thrusts and loosening his grip on their cocks. It was an agonizing torture, a pulsating pleasure aching to be released in Nicky’s balls, but his beloved’s plea was all that mattered—drag it out, make it last, just a little more.

That didn’t mean Nicky was going to be gracious about it, though.

“Cazzo, _cazzo,_ amore, per favore, per me, velocemente, per favore, Yusuf...”Fuck, love, please, for me, faster, please he begged, his hips betraying him in the need to chase his pleasure.

“I know, I know...” Joe whispered, a hand coming up to cup Nicky’s cheek, steadying him. His eyes caressed down Nicky’s face to his lips, parted and panting, where they stayed for a moment. “So good for me, love...”

“Yusuf...” Nicky practically wailed, the effort of holding back almost monumental now, as that familiar pressure built low in Nicky’s gut.

“My greatest masterpiece...” Joe murmured confidently, lips brushing the corner of Nicky’s mouth, and that was all Nicky could take.

The guttural cry that escaped him was lost to Nicky as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over him, and his entire body seized up with the force of it. A toe-curling thrill rampaged through him, his cock twitching in his hand and painting both Joe’s tee and Nicky’s bare chest. But it was just as well, because as Nicky stilled with the intensity of his pleasure, Joe’s hand wrapped around his own, moving it that last few strokes that it took for him to join Nicky in his rapture.

Joe’s moan matched Nicky’s as he came, his body tensing like a statue as his stream of come dribbled down steadily over both their hands, and his jerky movements as he continued to stroke them was just this side of too much. Nicky whined at the overstimulation, hand gripping and releasing on the nape of Joe’s neck to the rhythm of it, the sensations on his softening cock alternating between sweet pleasure and a twinging ache.

Finally, blessedly, Joe stilled, and all that remained was their shared pants and the tiny little jerks their hips made in the aftershocks. His wits returning, Nicky eased his thumb over the tip of both of them, smearing their come and making both of them twitch and gasp.

Joe smiled his most toothy, genuine smile as he weakly leaned in to press their lips together, sated and happy.

“Wicked distraction, you are,” he said against Nicky’s swollen lips, his breath hot as it ghosted over them.

“That makes two of us then,” Nicky snapped back, releasing his grip on their cocks and leaning back to assess the artist’s work.

The result was sublime, and simply peering down at it like this just wouldn’t do.

“Oh, Yusuf...” he gasped, pushing back to stand, knees wobbling a bit from the dulling pleasure, and approaching the antique full mirror in the corner of the room.

He was _covered_ in charcoal—full hand prints on his neck, abdomen, his hips, both ass cheeks. Then there were smudges up and down both thighs where Yusuf had caressed him, and a mark on the back of his hand where he’d helped his movements along. And a single thumb print on his chin, where Joe had tipped him down for a kiss.

“Sorry my heart, I’ll help clean you up,” Joe said, appearing in the mirror behind Nicky, come-drenched shirt suddenly missing.

“ _Don’t you dare,”_ Nicky whispered, tilting his head to admire the abstract details, more beautiful than any piece he’d ever seen in the Louvre, the Smithsonian, the Sistine Chapel. He traced the one on his neck, shivering as Joe pressed bodily against him from behind, wrapping him up in his hands once more and pressing a kiss into Nicky’s hair.

“But we were going to go to dinner,” Joe said into Nicky’s nape, inhaling luxuriously and curling his hands against Nicky’s pecs.

Nicky reached back to scratch through Joe’s beard on his cheek, pulling a bit possessively to keep Joe against him... not that he was going anywhere.

“We’ll order room service,” he said, bringing his free hand up to join Joe’s on his chest, tracing over the back of Joe’s hand and then threading their fingers together. “I want to admire it a little longer...”

Joe grinned and snorted out a tiny giggle, his breath ghosting through Nicky’s hair and sending a tickle down his spine.

“Anything you want, tesoro,” Joe said, beginning to sway lazily back and forth, and Nicky joined him, admiring the way Joe’s charcoal marks on him moved and morphed with the motion, with the shift of his muscles, with the dancing light.

“It is your best work, I think,” Nicky whispered, punctuating the statement with a single squeeze to Joe’s hand. “How will I ever pay for such a prize?”

Joe sighed happily against Nicky’s neck, eyes sliding closed in comfort.

“You already have.”


End file.
